


Loving spoons

by sian22



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: 'i love you' not in so many words, Blow Jobs, Gethin is excited about his surprise, Jonathon is a little tired and unreliable, M/M, Missing someone, Spooning, St Dwynwen's Day, loving spoons, welsh traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-09 16:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/sian22
Summary: It's hard to get traditions right when you know about them..even harder when they are from someone else's, undiscovered, country.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> At long last.. I can't believe it is nearly the end of March. Again. 
> 
> Happy Birthday to the spectacular Wynja2007. This has been sitting on my hardrive, chapter 2 unfinished, since your birthday of last year. And yes RL has been hopeless..but I am going to finish this. Forcing myself by posting Chapter 1. unbeta'd..apologies. Hope you have a wonderful day...

Jonathon sighs quietly and lays the phone back in its awkward cradle.

 

He runs almost (but honestly barely) shaking hands through his tawny hair before shoving them miserably into his armpits.  Ponders the erratic and impromptu choices and consequences thereof.   The frantic Christmas panto season  was done and dusted.  Fun but _exhausting_ frankly and by New Years he’d wanted just a bottle of bubbly and a couch and Geth..but that had led to throwing the flat open to _everyone_..Steph, the twins, new friends from the run..  All flowing liquid spirits and happy people spirits until things got a little skint and then this run, short sharp and nicely lucrative, seemed just the thing.

 

It had taken him bloody north of course.   Edinburgh is freezing and now he’s freezing, standing in the phone box willing the pips to not start up. wondering why he’s on tour and Geth doesn’t seem so lonely…

 

“Back by the 25th?  Right??  You said.”

 

The 25th,  Robbie Burns night.  He’ll miss the supper and the reeling but honestly..it’s ten long days away and he can’t wait more.  There’s a tether down to London that is pulling at his heart.   

 

“I did.  I _miss_ you.”   

 

“Perfect…chat _dydd mawrth,_ _ie_?”  

 

Happy, bright..distracted words, in a hurry, no time to talk.  Geth’s slipped into his native tongue and seeming missed the emphasis on miss… 

 

Deep breath.   “Yes..lovely.. til then… bieye…”     

 

Jonathon frowns, shivers and rests his forehead a moment against the frosted glass.   He’d drawn on all his acting skills to sound blithe and wholly unconcerned but there is something in the low Welsh tones that slightly… hurts.  Geth’s voice, fluid and enticing as it always is, sounds—well—excited.   Boyish.  Like a lad with a new toy and oh gods he shouldn’t even think it but it couldn’t  be… a new boy toy…

 

He hadn’t said he missed him.

 

Never…   Shouldn’t even think it..  Steady, shyish, lovely lovely Geth would not do that.  Not deliberately at least..   He _cares_ for Jonathon.. pretty sure of that.   Comes through in his languid touch, the gentle, never-startling words, leaving tea and crumpets on the bedside for the sluggabed when he has to go down and open up. 

 

But…  Geth hasn’t said it yet.. not outright..  There’s been no  ‘Jonathon.. I love you’ said seriously when arms are cradling after a shitty day.    No absent “love you, Jon” said  thankfully while accepting a cuppa from the back room into a busy shop.    

 

 _He_ has said it, lost in the utterly gorgeous after-dream, floating as if on angel wings,    

cradling cheekbones, large leg thrown over hips and feeling the slowly ebbing pounding in a dark-haired chest. 

 

The remembrance sets a tide in his lower self.  He wants Geth.. always..any way, any how that his dark beauty wants to give. 

 

 It is just that he gets so _excited_ sometimes..  Wants to show him off…  Not possessively.. ‘he’s mine.’  but proudly.. “look at this wonderful wonderful gift the world has given us.” 

 

Perhaps Gethin doesn’t understand.   Had he made it clear enough?  Geth had finally, reluctantly, a little drunk, joined him on the dance floor, dragged into the whirl by a fine-boned hand.. a tease---    “Well your hips move quite fluidly at other times. " 

 

They did..  utterly wonderfully.  On top.  Behind.  Pounding hard or pulsing slow.  In sync. in bed and,  Jonathon thought,  in everything.

 

Could he have pushed too hard?  Was the speed of the blossoming too fast?  Not what Gethin wanted after all.  Jonathon worried at his lower lip..… he thought he knew his boyfriend but…. they do say ..’never say never ‘ after all.

 

Might he have tired of taming a large, impulsive and none-to-careful-with-his-funds ragged moth? 

 

The thought makes his stomach twist and hard.  Silly silly man.  No way to know.  Not 400 miles away and down a staticcy telephone.  Shouldn’t doubt til you really know. 

 

He slips out of the box, smooths away a few flakes of wet upon his scarf and steps over the low salty slush against the curb.  

 

Best to get on with finishing the run.  He’ll find out what so important about the 25th.

 

Probably sooner than he’d like. 


	2. Chapter 2

The mellow umber wood is soft and warm below his palm, almost alive in a way and Gethin begins to understand how sculptors speak of releasing the life in the medium.  He had planned the pattern loosely, symbols of tradition, but wound with symbols of their own, ones that came out of twists and colours in the sycamore,  burnished now by hours of gentle sanding. 

 

Fiddling stuff, but worth it.  For him.  Distracting.  Soothing in its way.  Fine to pick up when the shop was dark and the sludgy, drizzly London nights let cool seep into his heart and his along his back. Hard to get warm when your heating blanket is away.     

 

Geth shivers, and reaches down to turn up another bar on the fire.  Imagines them--- again---Jonathon, big and warm and all consuming, top leg slung across his thigh, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and hair trailing across his cheek. 

 

Spoons.. that what’s they were.. fitting perfectly, always,  and that was, mostly,  the image that lead him to his point.  

 

That and _Dydd Santes Dwynwen._

 

Blake won’t know it.  No one outside of Wales knows St Dwynwen's Day but it is important.  The Saints day for Wales’ own saint for lovers.  Barred from marrying her love Maelon, Dwynwen prays to forget him and God sends down an angel armed with a potion to erase all her memory.

 

And turn her lover into a block of ice.

 

Mercifully, in the end the Angel relents and grants Dwynwen three wishes.  First she wishes that Maelon be thawed, second that God meets the hopes and dreams of true lovers and third that she should never marry.

 

 _Nice._    Typical bloody Welsh tale where no one gets what they want.  Angst.. the Welsh do angst too right. 

 

Well.. if the tale is dark at the holiday it is light.  Whole legions of otherwise reticent Welsh men send cards, write poems and read then aloud in the local pub. 

 

Bold.  Out front.  Risky and tho that’s perhaps the point Geth’s not doing that. 

 

Aside from the sad fact that his poetry is subpar (it is) but he’s not proclaiming his love for the man he would bind forever with before a hundred drunken semi-stranger _Saeson_ , ignorant to the meaning and seeing the ritual as an act.

 

And more to the point not before he’s had a chance to say it for just for his _cariad_ himself.

 

Gethin’s not said he loved Jonathon before.  It felt-too big-- in a way—stopped up all his throat and wouldn’t tumble past.  An emotion too big and strong.  Bright as a primary colour and needing time and space to settle, to find a way to _show it_ , not just say it.  Not throw it without ceremony, because it is too important. 

 

The rag soaked in fragrant linseed oil is rubbed across the wood’s creamy grain again and Gethin holds his carving up to the mellow glow of the lamp.  Almost done.  Two more nights, a bit of polishing, and he will give this simple rustic spoon to his flamboyant, flighty magpie. 

 

It’s funny in it way.  On the surface just another bit of tat.  Another piece to lie on the makeup desk and clutter up the dizzy space that Jonathon needs to begin his day.  But as strong lithe fingers caress the wood he sighs-- there is nothing ‘just’ about loving spoons,  Not to a Welshman.   They’ve been a symbol of intent century after century.  He’s seen the oldest in St Faggan’s: nigh 400 years, hand carved by a suitor long dead and gone.  Simple declaration.  Words and thoughts, hopes for the future, shown in the symbols raising from the stem.   A keyhole for holding the secret to life and love. A bird for new birth and flying off.  Balls in a cage for wished for children.

 

Gethin has chosen simply just for them.  Two hearts, one big, one small, for two eternal lovers.  A central twist to show the two of them are one.  A top loop of chain for their unbreakable togetherness.

 

He will fall on one knee and Jonathon will laugh. 

 

Maybe tear a little because the gift goes with the words that he will finally,  _finally_   say right out loud -- though he will  only say them once.    To the maddening, ecstatic, bright liquid soul he will bind himself.  (Not with scripture or official paper, no chance of _that.._ but with intent, and a firmer sense of will)

 

 _This he can do_ , he smiles..dark eyes sparking with desire.   Because his Blake is so very very worth it.

 

And deserves every happiness he can give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there.. another bit.. but not all and so a chapter 3...   
> I am picturing speaking like this of v v deep feeling is not easy for Gethin.. he's had to be strong for so long.. locked up a bit.. not show the shop front too much as Tele says. But he may well find this is not the only time as he assumes.... :)
> 
> the welsh:  
> Saeson--Englishmen  
> cariad--my heart, my love  
> Dydd Santes Dwynwen--St Dwynwen's day..celebrated January 25th.


	3. Chapter 3

The bell jangles as Jonathon bangs through the shop door, drops his faded red carpet bag upon the worn linoleum and breathes deep of the familiar smell.  Earthy tea and sharper paper.  That mix of thoughtfulness and excitement that is finding _just_ the thing.  _Home_. 

 

And Geth..

 

His shopping bag is held straight out front, bright eyes scanning round the space, looking for a dark head amidst the stacks. Shoulders droop because it’s 5:10 and closing time but there are customers still clutching books.  Shepherded gently, but then more quickly toward the till by Gethin, a dark arched eyebrow raised in greeting but with his ‘owner’ face on.

 

Jonathon tries to be patient, steps aside and bids ‘ta’ as the few depart, keep hands up, nervously.  Not like a shield, no not quite but still a pause..a bit of space. A second more for words to cross the air… in case..  

 

He’s been trying not to fret.  Silly. The last call had been more ‘on’ and his heart had jumped. Hopeful sign.  He thinks but knows he’s _tired_.  Bone tired after 2 weeks of nights and matinees, cold tea and peaty whiskey and not really sure if he’s misunderstood that first call or the last.  Or both.  Whether he’s being an idiot after all… needy, obstruse  but then it’s hard when one loves so much. 

 

He runs a hand nervously through tawny, shaggy locks, wanting nothing more than to sit down and have a cuppa, kiss Geth and let fingers play across his cheeks., reacquaint his senses with _his_ skin. 

 

But before that there are a few things to be said.

 

Jonathon swallows and tries not to jostle as Gethin bids goodday to the last, turns five locks, flips the ‘closed’ sign round and pulls down the shade.

 

“Hi.”  

 

“Hi.”   

 

There is a slow shy smile flickering on Geth’s face but it’s now or never. Before more can be said, before a ( _maybe_ ….please) welcome hug he thrusts the brown paper envelope into his boyfriend’s startled hands.   “Here..”

 

“What??” 

             

“Got my packet.  It’s mostly there..”  Jonathon, relieved of burden, stands with his hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, trying to not to take up much space.  Feeling smaller.. but hopeful.  Hands that would be reaching, greedy, need to be restrained.

 

“What?”  Gethin slowly looks up and back to his face, frowning, elegant fingers rifling the wad of bills.  “Why ever do you..?”

 

“Well you feed me.. support me.  More than you should.  Christmas was dear..” 

 

The dark brows crash together and Geth’s bites at his lip.  Worry..and annoyance.  A bit.  Jonathon’s positively vibrating with the need to touch but he won’t until he’s sure. ‘When did…?”  Gethin starts,  but then something hard to define flits through black knowing pools.  He stops and tries again, reaching for the grip.  “Come up. _bach_.” 

After the tea’s come on, and toast, and they’ve danced around the separation like butterflies Gethin finally reaches across the table top and takes his hand.  “Jonathon, where ever did you get the impression that that bothered me?” 

 

“You didn’t say you missed me.”

 

“I didn’t…? When?”   

 

“On the telephone.  That one time..  and I’m sorry.  I think I’ve been a bit too present,  flitting around, Fun.  Parties.  Pulling you out into the scene and maybe pushed you too far.  The dance…”   

 

It’s all spilling in a rush: more apologies gush out, hopefully, faster and faster as if the flood will overwhelm with love and understanding and Gethin at first just looks confused, then worried, then finally amused, shaking his head, rubbing his thumb across the back of Jonathon’s shaking hand.  “You see I love you..  so very much…don’t want to cause a problem.  Need to not push..”

 

“Oh Jonathon, _cariad_..”  A small snort and then a finger brushes across his lip.  “I told you we weren’t dancers.  Welsh men are drunken, brilliant, self-destructive poets.  Or singers.   They don’t dance like that.  Puttin’ on the Ritz.  Or flaming tango.  Not without a lot of help… But we do enjoy it, once the fear lets go.”

 

“Oh.”  Jonathon tries to get his head around this new idea.  Not mad.  Yes.. then..but what?   “You sing?” he says, surprised, for Geth hasn’t so much as hummed before.  But then he thinks, of course..hallelujah.. those long vowels and slow sensual melifluous tones.  Gorgeous.  Raised up loud.   

 

Gethin chuckles, “Only when there are 25 identically dressed men in rows down the pub…and the dog wailing above it all.”

 

Jonathon grins back, dizzy with relief.   “You’re truly not mad at me?”  

 

“Not a bit.  Well..not true.  Mad at myself.  For not realizing.  Not answering.  I was distracted.” 

 

As if that word reminds, Gethin jumps up, almost upends the pot, dashes into the their room with a  “Hang on..”   Rushes back and then drops down on one knee.  Jonathon’s startled, as much by looking eye to eye at his love as he is by the small golden brown offering on his knee.   

 

“What is this?”

 

“It’s  St. Dwynwen’s day.  The right day for this.”  Now Gethin’s frowning, nervous, but a crinkle in the corner of his eyes oozes happiness.  “Sorry can’t do tradition.  Won’t declare my love to you in poetry. But I can carve.. a little.” 

 

 “Your love?”  

 

The hard lump that has blocked Jonathon’s chest bursts open, showers sparks of relief and hope like an ember that has collapsed.  Gethin’s hands are on his knees… warm and sure,  dark eyes glinting with sudden tears.  “It’s a loving spoon.  I… could...recite someone else’s words, a card, but it felt.. not right.”   

 

A loving spoon?  The honey-toned, speckled wood is soft beneath Jonathon’s palm.  There are hearts and loops and he knows there must be deeper meaning but that’s for later.  Quite where he’s learned the symbol, the suit, he’s not sure.  That Brighton run of “How Green was My Valley” perhaps.  Or the Quarryman.   

 

 “This is for me?”

 

Gethin nods, clears his throat roughly, warms a voice made hoarse by sudden need.  “Jonathon Blake,  _rwy'n dy garu di._ I love you.  Now.  I love you.  And I will ten minutes from now and ten years from now. Always.  Will you be mine?”

 

“Oh… “  A few hot tears drip, salty, into his mouth, but he doesn’t mind, they mingle with the sweetness of Gethin’s lips as he reaches out, pulls his lover gently into his lap.  

 

“Yes..”  

 

The spoon is rescued and stands upon the sill, smiling, smugly, at them both, thrilled with its part in the little play.   Below, they’re lost,  all lips and beating hearts and tugging, insistent fingers tightening in hair until Jonathon comes up for air… runs a hand across Gethin’s throat and murmurs “I want to hear your singing voice…. “

 

“The neighbours will die.”

 

 “Not home.. I looked.  The mail is piled on the stoop..”  

 

Jonathon laughs, giddilyl and so Gethin shakes his head. unwinds himself, breaks contact reluctantly.  The things he does for the man he loves.  He steps down out of that large, tempting lap and stands, hands on hip for once and quite unbothered by tightened fabric. 

  
Takes a breath and tries not to groan at what first comes into his head.  

 

_“Holl amrantau'r ser ddywedant, ar hyd y nos.”_

 

The note breaks on the last syllable for Jonathon’s lips are soft and warm against his cock….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry.. now 4 chapters because I want to keep posting and just still having trouble focusing to write. Boy was tired today and needed fussing over. This feels like crap but it feels like it needs out in the world more than in and no time...
> 
> The' I love you' in Welsh I think you can get and the song is the first line of 'Ar hyd y nos" the Welsh version of the hymn "All through the night" Which is of course includes
> 
> "Guardian angels God will send thee," 
> 
> smile... 
> 
> onward to chapter 4 and make up fun....

**Author's Note:**

> Pls don't throw vegetables. It all works out.. I promise.
> 
> It struck me that we all forget now how hard it was on landlines back then, in a wind buffeted phonebox, to catch people's tones.. words and understanding can be tricky. And it is good to have a little conflict, to sweeten the make up that is coming next.. :)


End file.
